Waiting in Every Window
by Kay the Cricketed
Summary: [HarryRon SLASH] A series of drabbles from several different universes. Ron asks a question. Harry only sees black and red. Apples, broom lessons and drowning, oh my?
1. The Luckiest Man

_Drabble #1 - The Luckiest Man_

By Kay 

Disclaimer: Yeah. I tried to buy Harry Potter from JKR for three dirty pennies, pretty blue string, and a shiny piece of foil. She refused. All eighteen times. 

Greedy old hag. 

... *ducks from flying debris* I was just kidding! I won't insult the name of your god any longer, I promise! No, anyway, this is just a short and sweet little Harry/Ron piece I decided to do. First in a series, actually. They're all Harry/Ron, ranging from fluffy to angsty, set in all different universes-- nothing's going to be the same. Maybe I'll slip some AU in. Anyway, please enjoy. ^__^ And for those of you who actually keep up with my things, "The Meaning of a Faith" has the next chapter coming out by Christmas. That is a promise. 

~~~~~ 

    "Who would you be, if you could be anyone else?" 

    It seems like such an important question, though it really isn't at all. Significant enough, however, for Harry to pause and look up from his Transfiguration homework. He blinks against the soft glow of candlelight, struggling to make his blurry eyes focus- his glasses lay forgotten on the table. 

    Fiery red hair smolders in his poor eyesight, melting together sharp blue eyes from the sky with its brilliance. Ron seems to be made of something burning, something like smoke and ash and flame all at once, and a thousand other things that are being eaten alive by the fire in his voice. Urgency and hesitance flickering over the tongue, playing across his freckled features. 

    Harry blinks. 

    "Anyone else?" 

    The blurred figure nods and though he can't see very well, Harry thinks that he's seeing his best friend clearer than ever. "Yeah, if you could be anyone else besides yourself. Who would you be?" 

    There are many things on the tip of his tongue. Things like, _normal_ and _a boy with parents_ and _not the savior of the wizarding world._

    But when he thinks- and he does so carefully- he realizes that there's only one image that comes to his mind for the future he'll never have. It involves waking up each morning to rumbled white bed sheets and the faint scent of bacon roasting in the air. It's when a Harry J. Potter fumbles with his robe ties and walks to the kitchen, and the young man at the stove is wearing _his_ faded t-shirt and sweatpants, but it doesn't matter. Because the redhead who's wearing his shirt- and it looks so much bigger on his thin shoulder blades, now that Harry's been growing- turns to him, and smiles, and says, _G'morning, Harry. Alright?_ And Harry will nod. 

    They'll drink coffee and eat, and laugh over the morning paper, and how it has nothing to do with Harry J. Potter at all. Not today. The headlines are about the new art center being built. They study the stock and the lanky redhead will scoff at _that Muggle thing_ that makes them want to get rid of their money so bad. And even though Harry wants to stay inside today- which makes his lover laugh and kiss him gently, eyes mischievious and more familiar than anything in his entire life- they'll follow through with their original plans. They'll go to the park and throw bread crumbs at the geese, and the redhead will almost have one follow him home. They'll throw a few knuts in the fountain downtown, the fiery-haired boy remarking, _If your wish involves making me do the dishes tonight, your head's screwed on funny, mate._ Harry will laugh, looping an arm around the man's waist and tugging him away. 

    There will be Thai food for dinner, and white take-out boxes will litter the floor until they're picked up because of reluctant habit. Harry insists later that it was him who finally did the deed, although they'll always disagree about who's the tidier of the two. That's okay, though. He loves it that way. 

    The night will be cool and swift. Blankets will be brought out of their mix-matched linen closet, and they'll curl up on the rickety porch swing outside. There will be laughter and light, lightening bug kisses rained over the spot where there should be a scar- except there is none, because it is not that Harry J. Potter. He never was. Only the simple boy who knew he loved this redheaded person in his arms, from the very moment he met him as they sat together on the train, during a morning far away, and caught each other's surprised gazes. He has done nothing spectacular with his life. Nothing exciting. 

    Nothing except have Ronald Weasley love him; look at him with that blinding smile and bemused, freckled face. It's what makes Harry J. Potter special. What makes him unique. It makes him the luckiest man alive. 

    "Harry?" 

    He's tilting that freckled chin up, looking into blue eyes clearer than any truth he'd ever told- and then Harry blinks, and he's already seeing them. Ron glances at him worriedly, putting down the hand he was waving in front of his best friend's glazed expression. 

    "You a'right, mate?" 

    Harry wants to reach up and feel his scar, but knows it's there either way. He shakes his head; the action makes his eyesight blur further. With an absent gesture, he reaches for his glasses and fits the frames over his ears and nose. When the world comes into focus, he smiles at Ron. 

     "I'm fine." 

    "You spaced out. You're sure?" Ron demands, concern and suspicion dancing lightly over his face. Harry laughs; he's quite sure. "Well, if you didn't want to answer me, you didn't have t'ignore me…" 

    "Answer you?" 

    "Yeah- about who you'd want to be. If you could be _anyone_ else in the world." 

    Harry wants to say, _The man who loves you._

    But the world's in focus again, and he's not nearly so lucky. 

***** 


	2. A Place To Come Home To

_Drabble #3 - A Place to Call Home_

By Kay 

Disclaimer: See first drabble. See first drabble rip away any rights I had towards Harry Potter. Rip away, Harry Potter, rip away. 

Author's Notes: Second drabble up-- another cute, sweet one. A bit happier. The next one's actually pretty dark, so maybe it'll be nice to have a little more sweetness before I start getting bitter and twisted. ^^;; Anyway, Harry/Ron slash again, along with a fair amount of endless rambling and badly written sap. Happiness! 

Thanks for all the reviews. *blushes* If anyone wants to see a scene written out, go ahead and offer ideas if you want... I'm always happy to oblige the reviewers. :) 

***** 

    Harry had never had a home. 

    Oh, he'd lived in many places. Stayed in more than one bed, woken up to more than one person making breakfast. There had been houses and hotels, tavern rooms and school dorms, each with a space that could claim part of his heart, or at the very least, part of his identity. But he never called any of them his home; life had ripped away any assumptions about such a delicate matter. 

    Privet Drive, for reasons apparent enough, had never been anything but a place to stay. There were no strings that attached him emotionally to that house, no sweet memories or fond recollections to label it with. Truth be told, as the years went by and Harry saw the insides of many places, he realized it held nothing except the tattered remnants of a childhood long passed. And even that thought- of childhood- was not enough to make it a home to him. 

    Hogwarts had been the second location he'd spent time in. This was seen with more affectionate feelings - it was no secret that Harry used to long for the school terms, growing comfortable while enclosed in the thick stone walls of the castle. That was sanctuary. That was happiness. It was the closest he'd ever come to calling a place "home," having a space of his own that he could retreat to when the darker shadows of his life threatened to corrupt. The corridors held the faint memories of laughter on sun-spun days, echoes of footsteps and excited conversations on Quidditch games and homework assignments. 

    The only problem, Hogwarts wasn't _his_. And through the years of the war, there had been bad memories as well as good. Tragedies and triumphs mingling together. Safety was no longer ensured, the solid embrace of the walls no longer as constant and gentle as they'd once seemed. Hogwarts would always be the second place he'd turn to, unforgettably his first sense of belonging. 

    But it wasn't home. 

    Even the Burrow, as lively and vibrant and everything he could've dreamed of, couldn't be his alone. Sure, staying there was like slipping into a second skin for him. Yet… no matter how many holidays he spent there, no matter how many warm, raisin bun and candy scented hugs Mrs. Weasley bestowed upon him - none of it made it any easier when he looked around the dinner table and saw the group of redheads… and then himself. The different one. Outcast, even. No, even with all that love, he wasn't really a part of them, just a wheel jointed onto the main structure. Perhaps welcomed, but an intruder none the less, in a home that Harry'd never claimed for his own. 

    The same applied to rooms of the Leaky Cauldron, though he spent many nights there in his life. They were warm and inviting, but not a place to call home. He couldn't come back to them every night, couldn't feel the relief enveloping him as soon as he crossed the threshold. There was no warm bed waiting for him; the sheets had been used by many people from many places. The furnishings had no personal touch - nothing had a story that only he knew, because he'd never chosen any of it. 

    If home was indeed where the heart is, Harry's heart had been lost for a very long time. 

    It wasn't a fear he told many people. The idea of explaining the sentimental concept was embarrassing. Mortifying and somewhat painful, though he knew no one would laugh about it. It was a secret longing Harry kept for himself, still, and one other person. Perhaps that was also why he never told. Maybe he wanted this secret to be his own, and this other's own, as well. 

    The words always stayed inside of him. 

    _You think too hard on it,_ Ron had said firmly. He said the words without sensitivity, and without harshness, in the manner he said all things, all the things Harry had ever wanted or needed to desperately hear. _You've got to concentrate on the important things, mate. You've got Hermione, don't you? And Hogwarts and my family. You've got Sirius and Professor Lupin, don't you? And me? You always have me, Harry._

    _You don't understand,_ he had replied quietly. _You can't be a home, Ron. You're… y'know, a person._

    _Who says I can't?!_ demanded the redhead in outrage. His blue eyes widened across his face, freckles stark against the pale mesh of his skin in the darkened study room. _ I'm just missin' some walls and a doorstep, amen't I? But I've got other stuff, too. I'm dependable… got a great foundation, too, 'cause I come from a huge family. I can keep secrets hidden. Maybe not the best decorated, but I'm more familiar to you than most parts of the world. And I know things about you that no one else does. I can always be there when you need a place to rest. I'll never leave you in the cold, never lock you out of my life. The doors are always open, always waiting. Not for anyone, just you. You're always welcome, Harry._

    _Ron…_ he'd mumbled. Shocked. Something. Something elusive in his choked voice and the way his eyes were blurring. 

    _I'll always have a light on in the window for you, until you get home. I'm just as tough as any house; maybe not as strong as you, but that just means I can always depend on you to come back. Isn't that right, Harry? Isn't that what a home really is? Something to come back to?_

    And Ron's eyes had never seemed more blue, more bright, more pleading than this moment, not for all the years he would grow to know him. So Harry nodded. He said nothing, and nodded, and took that glance and those words deep inside of himself, letting the warmth spread and grow for every night he felt lonely and cold. 

    Years later, he comes home late at night after an endless day of work. Kicks off the standard boots worn by all Aurors, tired and too listless to put them in their proper place. He hangs his coat on the rack that Ginny bought him for their homecoming gift. The lights softly glow in the windows, chasing away the bitter cold of the snow that falls gently outside the glass. 

    He stumbles through the cozy, familiar place, desolate and searching. Reaches the couch they'd bought years ago, but could never part with. 

    And in this future, Harry stares down at a peaceful, sleeping face that knows no horror or pain. Pale skin, soft fiery lashes framing a pair of eyes that put the Christmas lights to shame every December. The worn sweater is Harry's; he's given up on ever getting the chance to wear it, and to tell the truth, the green color looks much better on his lover anyway. 

    And here, as the clock in the kitchen strikes an hour that is wrong (it's been broken for a month, but neither of them have managed to fix it yet), Harry leans down and sits on the edge of that sofa. 

    Tilting his head to breath in the scent of magnolias from thick, coppery hair - _He's been using that awful shampoo Hermione insisted was a herbal cleanser _- Harry carefully lands a gentle kiss on the upturned nose of Ron Weasley. 

    Sleepy eyes open, soften, and hands pull him down for a real kiss. Harry's fingers wind around familiar hips, feeling the slow beat of a heart he's listened to for what must be forever, and the flush of safety and belonging that comes with the sound that winds around every crevice in his being; whispering of the presents they still have to wrap, the cold of a lonely bed, the desire and knowledge that this one place is truly their own. It makes him smile, and his lover parts his lips at the feel of it - at the sight, he returns the smile with one of his very own. 

    _Welcome home, Harry,_ Ron whispers with that smile. 

    And it's all he's ever dreamt of coming back to. 

*** 

More domestic cuteness. I need a life. *chuckles* Anyway, as OOC as that was- honestly, Ron wouldn't spout all that "home" junk for real- I couldn't let it gather dust on my hard drive. So sorry. I'll put something good up next, I promise. Thanks! 


	3. Everything He's Ever Believed

_Drabble #3 -- Everything He's Ever Believed_

By Kay 

Author's Notes: Harry/Ron, one-sided. This one's a lot more angsty, though still not nearly enough for my tastes. *laughs* Sorry if it's badly written, I haven't had the time or energy to check it over-- real life's been really harrassing me lately. Sorry if it's second-rate, I promise to make something nice next time. Anyone have any particular scenes they want to see? 

Done in Ron's POV, in a new style. Please enjoy! *hugs* Thank you for all the kind reviews! 

***** 

    You don't know why you're standing there. 

    There are a million other places you want to be, a thousand other things you want to be doing, but it doesn't change anything. Because you're still there; it's a given, an obvious, a taken-for-granted. Because you always promised him. Sometimes in the nights, when he woke gasping and screaming from nightmares and the horrible things of the world, when he didn't know you were awake, didn't realize you were listening in your bed and your heart was breaking in half for him. When you promised yourself. And later, sometimes, when in the heat of danger or when he was in very, very much trouble, you even said it aloud. 

    _'I will never leave you.'_

    You used to hold onto other things in life. When you were younger and the house was full of people constantly doing things, too busy to give you something to hold onto, unable to provide that doctrine of faith. So you latched-- you held onto Charlie's love for Quidditch, and would stare in awe at the flying men in all of his books, watch him practice outside for hours until Mum called you indoors from the cold. You grasped onto the way Bill loved to laugh, growing a sense of humor through the jokes and his wide, easy-going grins. And then there was Percy; he was the one who taught you how to tie your shoes without magic, the brother who comforted you when the thunderstorms were too loud. 

    _'There you are,'_ he would say, gently dropping a mug of apple cider in front of you. The kitchen was in black and white and gray, the silhouette of Percy's hand reaching to softly twine his fingers in your rumpled, messy hair. _'That's not so bad, is it?_' 

    To this day, you've learned not to cringe at the sound of a storm. 

    The twins were harder to capture. You spent your youth following them curiously, hovering anxiously and ready to please, wanting to gather another bit of them for yourself. Something to add to your beliefs. But they were flitting creatures-- they darted around, laughing and evading you, and you never thought you glimpsed who they really were. Until the day that George took a horrible fall down the attic stairs when they were trying to see the ghouls, and Fred turned such a horrible white, and cried out so painfully as he ran towards his twin, and started crying in relief when he saw that his other self wasn't hurt, that you thought you finally understood. 

    You took Loyalty and Devotion from the twins. 

    Your Mother taught you the meaning of a temper, but also the best ways to bake cookies and biscuits. She was the reason you knew how to comfort an ill child, or the handiest gardening spells. (They were woven into your brain from all the times she's waved her wand and used them to make tiger lilies dance for you.) Your Dad taught you tolerance; it was a skill he grafted into you with his joy and love of Muggles and all things unknown, and perhaps the basis for your love of adventure. These were the beliefs, the soul principles, that you stole from your family. The things you cling to in your desperations, in your pains. 

    They've made you who you are. 

    Except… then there was Harry. 

    Harry was like a belief onto his own. He was just a boy with messy black hair, a jagged scar across his forehead and eyes so vividly green that you think they could have magic of their own. But you knew what he really was; under all the lopsided grins and human flaws, there was still that core of faith inside of him. Harry was good. Good in a way things weren't always for you, and you _knew_ that instinctively. Knew that he was good, and right, and pure, and everything just in the world was in his name. That was why you sat with him on the train, why you kept him with you for years to come. 

    You believed in Harry. He taught you something that had no word. It was too strong, too beautiful to grasp in human and wizard languages. 

    And that was why you were there when he went after the stone that first year. Why you believed in him even after the Chamber of Secrets was opened, even after he spoke a language in hissing tones that made your neck tingle and heart pound in some ancient fear that only wizards know. It was why you were there when they faced Sirius Black, why you tried to desperately protect him from the madman you believed wanted to take him away. 

    _'You'll have to kill all three of us!'_

    It was why you wanted to comfort him in his nightmares, why something inside of you ached when he had to go back to a home that didn't want him. Why you sat around listlessly all summer, waiting for the Quidditch Cup, and more importantly, Harry. Even all of your brothers around you hadn't been able to deter you from your subdued waiting-- they were no longer your belief system. 

    Harry was everything good in the world. That was all that mattered. 

    And then he was there, and there was light, and you knew you could never lose your faith. 

    Except you did. At one point in that fourth year, hearing his name echo across a hall you'd sat in many times, watching the shock on everyone's face. And part of you knew it wasn't his fault, Harry wouldn't ever put his name in the goblet, but there was a sudden drop in your stomach and sting in your eyes that had nothing to do with not being a winner, too. It had everything to do with the fact that Harry may have lied to you, may have realized you were nothing, not worth telling this simple fact to. Or did he put his name in, thinking you were too weak to help? 

    And under your breath, breathing hard at that table, _'I'm in doubt. I'm sorry.'_

    And then Harry was gone. 

    Of course, it was your fault, you knew that immediately after you stopped talking to him. Everything was always your fault. You knew better; you should have had faith in him, never doubted, never angered. But it was harder to take back now, those bitter words you'd echoed from a greatly dark part of your heart, and Harry left you to the vultures. The vultures of loneliness, the ones that ate at you and plagued you and made you stay up late at night to listen to the wind howling through the cracks and crannies of Hogwarts. 

    And then, after the first task, you atoned for your sins. 

    It had been horrible, watching that dragon whirl through the air after Harry. You wanted to cry out in fear-- and suspected you actually did-- because it wasn't right. He wasn't supposed to be in so much danger. It wasn't fair. Just because he was Harry Potter… no, you wanted so much to see him safe on the ground, and when he was, you were almost sick with worry. Hermione patted your back and soothed you for a while, and you knew she was feeling triumphant from the knowledge that she was right, you didn't hate him at all. 

    You may, in fact, love him. 

    And when he forgave you, even before you could apologize and offer your soul to him in return for mercy, everything became a paradise again. The rest of the tasks were horrible, but he was back with you, Harry and Ron, like it had always been. 

    When Cedric died, Harry became sad. 

    You could forget all the memories in the world and still not forget the night Harry came back from the third task. His crumpled body, huddled next to the blond Hufflepuff boy, laying on the field without a single movement. You can still recall with perfect clarity how hard your heart pounding, how breathless, how dead the world seemed to be when you thought, 

    _'I've lost him.'_

    Except you didn't. And he was hurt, so badly that it was hard to fathom the idea of putting him back together again-- the pieces of his heart were so shattered from that horrible night. But Harry was good. The good was strong. You told yourself that throughout the night, clutching his hand in a hospital wing you've always hated, having been there to clutch his hand through the night so many times that you knew its every routine. You never wanted to see Harry in there again. 

    And then came the corruption. 

    The fifth year became your piece of Hell. You remembered his wrath, so painful and harsh and deserved, the way he screamed at you when he returned. It was horrible. It was okay. It was like he had broken you, and in a moment, rebuilt you. And when he forgave you yet again, you promised never to stand in his way for anything, as long as he would continue to keep you in his graces. 

    Nothing meant anything now. It was always Harry. 

    You remember the terrors of the fifth year even more than the good parts, perhaps because there was so little happiness to be found. Instead, you remember bitterness, and a little fear. You remember getting Harry and your brothers kicked off the team. You remember worrying to death before every Quidditch match, twisting your blankets in slender fingers, trying not to succumb to vicious tears of pure terror. They never wanted you out on the field; they wanted Harry. And you wanted him, as well, wanted him there to save you when you failed worse than ever. 

    Sometimes you thought dark thoughts. Things about lakes bottoms and dementors and what Harry left you alone? You were nothing, after all. Just another Weasley. Just completely worthless, totally useless. Not like Cho, who made Harry smile sometimes when he was so upset, though it wasn't so much a blindingly happy one as you expected. 

    You won the Quidditch Cup. You loved the pleased grin on Harry's face because it had been so long since you'd gazed upon it. 

    And when the time came, you were there to fight with him at the Department of Mysteries. You don't remember much of it-- only surprise, shock, and a deadly sort of pain that still haunts your nightmares sometimes, but later Hermione told you that you must have been very brave. Honestly, though, someone else you she was unconscious the entire time. And someone else told you that you were an idiot. 

    And Harry said nothing about it, because Harry was hurt. 

     You never discussed it. The pain of losing his godfather hurt him so intensely that you didn't know what to say. After Sirius, Harry's green eyes became a deeper shade of emerald, as though perpetually shadowed with the weight of his loss, the tragedy of his burdens he now had to bear. You had nothing to say to that. Nothing that would have made a difference, anyway, and fear kept you from speaking of any other matters. You still feared a loss of faith again. 

    No, you never spoke of it, but once you met Harry in the early hours of the morning out in the common's room. He was watching a dying fire, black hair twirling messily into his dull eyes, and you took a seat beside him. There was never a word said, but you treasure the memory for that very reason, for the look he gave you when he glanced over and smiled softly. 

    He took your hands, that very quiet morning, and looked at the scars covering your arms. Scars from the Department of Mysteries, from that horrible night, from a brain-like creature you barely remember that left gruesome white lines jagging across the soft skin of your forearms and collarbone. 

    _'I'm sorry,'_ Harry had murmured, the only words said, and his fingers delicately traced the paths of ruined skin. The rising sun was in the windows and it haloed his hair, dusky and perfect and painful. His slight smile only for you. 

    Your breath caught, and you felt the heat rush to your face, through your wildly beating heart, and knew that you would never leave his side. 

    And you didn't. Not even after the fifth year, when the darkness grew and shadows could hide traitors at every corner, and Harry came back from his home looking like he didn't care about anything anymore, especially not the people who followed and loved him. Harry was no longer good, you knew. No longer pure and just and everything perfect in the world. 

    He was good and bad now. 

    You were surprised you still believed in him. 

    And through the rest of the school years, you watched. You watched him be bitter, be happy; you watched him cry and laugh and curse. You played Quidditch with him, but only because he caught you turning in your resignation to the Captain, and furiously demanded to know why you'd ever do something so stupid. So you ripped it up, flushing, and called it a moment of insanity. He wanted you there, after all. So you were. 

    You were there when he learned darker spells, when he woke in the night because his scar was splitting with pain. You bit your lip in bed, feeling the flesh start to rip under your teeth, but even the metallic taste didn't deter you from listening to his soft sounds of despair. 

    You were there when he almost failed potions, when he went into this phase where he wanted to drink coffee instead of pumpkin juice. He never put anything in it to soften the flavor, though he seemed to like honey roasted brands more than anything. You memorized the brand labels, never questioning why you bothered, and stocked the Weasley house full of each kind for the summers. You still remember the look on Harry's face, surprised and pleased, when he found them. 

    So through the sunlit summer days and the darker times when all hope seemed lost, you stayed with him. You stayed when he grew even taller than you, his bones still brittle, but slightly thickened from years of healthy food finally replacing the thinness of his youth. You stayed when his voice was deep, and his laughter was louder than before, though it was rarer. You stayed when he started dating Ginny, after giving you a guilty look one day and asking if you'd punch him for it. 

    You remember feeling like the world was ripped in half, but the words came out of your mouth like it was absolutely nothing. 

    _'Anything you want, mate.'_

    And so you watched her leave with Harry, wondering if you looked the same with him from the back, the dark head of hair and fiery red leaning close and whispering. You smiled at them like you were proud. You stayed, and it hurt, but every night of this strange misery was worth it when you saw him laugh more. Because Harry's laughter was precious; it was everything. 

    And you became scared of thunderstorms again. 

    You were there to see people love him, to see the world adore him, to see him give up and give in-- only to grow in strength once more. Because Harry was good and bad, he had a heart of gold and sometimes forgot your birthday for a week, and that was perfect for you, because Harry was _always_ perfect. No matter, no matter at all. 

    You thought once… that you were falling and would never come back. 

    You spiraled into oblivion, into an emerald world where you looked at Harry's worried face and knew you could say anything but what you meant. Knew it was okay to smile, to lie through your teeth, anything to keep your best mate happy, anything to let him see that you would give him everything. 

    _'Of course I'll be careful. I'll just stay near the back of the force, huh?'_

    So there you are now. Standing there. 

    In the middle of Hogwarts, knowing that Hell itself lies beyond the doorway in front of you, standing in a crowded room of wizards and witches all tense and ready to fight. Your wand is drawn like the others; it isn't shaking, but you can't see straight. There's a rip in your side from the earlier battle. The thunderstorm outside booms, and part of you wishes Percy was here with a cup of apple cider. Harry is upstairs somewhere, fighting harder than anyone, facing a great evil on his own. 

    You don't worry about him, though. Because you believe in Harry. 

    He will live. 

    He'll live with Ginny and Hermione and your family, and he'll live to see sunlight and sunset, summers and winters, and everything will become good in the world once again, and Harry will _smile._

    Because you believe it. You believe so much it's killing you. 

    You believe it, and for that very reason, you're standing at the front of the line to face an army of Death Eaters with nothing but a wand and your love, your love for Harry and a future you think you'll never see, your memories of the past filling you until there's nothing but the knowledge that you'll always be there for him. That this is probably the last time. 

    You think about him, the way he's everything you've ever needed or wanted, and it seems so clear that you could start crying. Because you love him. You love him so much, so badly, that it's become everything Ronald Weasley could ever be. It's all you ever _want_ to be. Ever. And maybe it's right, then, that you leave him alone. Leave him to a world that's far more deserving of a god. 

    No, not a god. Just Harry. 

    The Harry that was never yours to keep. 

    _'Would it have been so hard to love me?'_

    So you clutch tightly to your wand, taking a deep breath, and the soldiers around you are either praying or crying or wishing or preparing, and you see flashes in your mind of a world where you could just love him rightly, love him truly, see him smile every morning just for you before he had his cup of coffee, and it hurts so bad that it makes your eyes sting with tears and you're sobbing for air, the wand wavering in your hand-- 

    The Death Eaters come close enough that you can hear their footsteps. Everyone tenses. A witch to your left whimpers and presses against the wall. You take a breath. 

    You wipe tears away furiously with a sleeve. And believe. Believe so hard that something rips inside of you, and numbly, you watch as the door crashes to the floor and dark wizards swarm the school. It seems so much easier to step up and raise your wand against the mass of destruction-- 

    The green light is so vivid that it looks exactly like Harry's eyes that first day of school. If you had time, you'd think that it was a fitting last sight. 

    _'There you are. That's not so bad, is it?'_

    No. 

    No, it's not. 

    After all, you always knew you would die for him. 

***** 

Wow. Very OOC, I think, because Ron's not usually so sentimental, but I like to think he has that side to him somewhere. ^^;; So please don't kill me. Too short, too, but oh well... and yes, the style was new, the whole "you" perspective thing. It also rambled a lot and used too many commas-- that was all on purpose, though I don't know if I like the effect. It'll be back to usual soon. *giggles* 


	4. If I Ever Want

_If I Ever Want_

By Kay 

A/N: Yes, it's very short. Painfully short. But I have another painfully short one right after this to upload, both of which are very badly written and have no point, but then again, where else is it going to go? In my document folder? Bah. 

I'll finish the other one I'm doing. I promise it'll be longer. And more fun. 

~~~~~ 

    "Harry?" 

    "Yeah?" 

    "Have you ever wanted to do something really, really strange? Something that had no impact on anything, but you can't stop thinking about it. Like it's a craving. And you can't really get at it, can't forget it, even though it's so stupid?" 

    There is a perplexed silence. 

    "Um… well, I don't know." 

    "I have one." 

    "A... what?" 

    "A craving to do something stupid," Ron answers miserably. Harry can hear him shift in his bed, the blankets being kicked impatiently and spilling over the sides. They glow a faint red in the moonlight, crimson and familiar to his unfocused eyes. His glasses are on the bedside table. 

    For a moment, he considers the words spoken by his friend. Reluctance, restrained longing- these are not things he's heard in that voice before. Joy and pleasure often enough, sometimes depression or disappointment, but never such an ache. Such a longing. It's too much to hear from that tone and he finds himself trying to erase it from his mind. 

    "What should I do?" Ron asks again, the voice digging into the empty night. 

    "Maybe you should just do it? Even though it's stupid," Harry suggests hesitantly. 

    The silence stretches out into a lingering, uncomfortable façade of normalcy. After a moment, in the darkness of the Gryffindor dorm, Harry hears bedcovers rustle and be thrown aside. He listens very carefully, careful not to move in his own bed, and only smiles a little when he hears Ron swear under his breath because the floorboards were too cold for his bare feet. 

    The footsteps echo slightly, and Ron's silhouette appears above him for a second; hesitant and blurry around the edges. 

    "You really think I should try it?" 

    Harry finally reaches out, fumbling for his glasses on the bedside table. It feels better to hear the voice seem more normal, more in control. A little fearful, maybe, but... "Well, if it makes you feel better. Where are we going for thi-" 

    His hand stops, his breath catches. 

    When Ron pulls away, he seems nervous and afraid and relieved all at once. Harry's never noticed until now, but his lips are the same color as his fiery hair, and the strands as soft as his skin when they brush against the side of his face. He didn't realize he was growing it out longer. It frames his sharp features, the shy blue oceans of his eyes, and the tiny dotted freckles that only show up in the sun's heated rays. They're concentrated over the slope of his nose, trailing over his pale cheekbones and under the black soot of his eyelashes. 

    Harry thinks he's never seen so much in his life. 

    "Um. So yeah. Like I said, stupid, right?" 

    Harry doesn't know what to say. But he nods wordlessly, noting absently that Ron's face falls only slightly before he turns away, and then the silhouette is gone. Back to his own bed. The space where his hand had pressed into the covers seems cold. He finds himself staring at the ceiling, and doesn't remember what he says after Ron whispers, "Good night," again. 

    All he can think of is,_ I have this craving. I want to do something stupid._

    And so he gets up, throws the covers off, and takes extreme delight in Ron's shocked face when he leans down to kiss him. 

**** 

Like I said. Short. ^^;; Oh well. 


	5. A Slice of Destiny

_A Slice of Destiny_

By Kay 

A/N: Told you I'd upload another super-short, pointless one. This is just because my guilty conscious is screaming at me for not working on anything lately, so feel free to ignore them. ^^;; Will work hard! I promise! Just... doing a rather long HP fic and trying to finish "The Meaning of a Faith" part two, you know... 

~~~~~ 

    He likes to call it fate. 

    Rather, as Harry likes to tell him with one of those faint and amused smiles, he likes to _blame_ fate. That always prompts him to protest-- it makes him sound inhumanly disgusted at the way things had turned out, when he isn't at all. In fact, he honestly thinks that he'd love to thank whatever had a hand in playing out his life, because he can say with complete sincerity that he's never, ever been happier in his entire existence. 

    It's the truth, and enough to make Harry Potter blush. 

    This in itself is a strange thing, and he finds himself making excuses for it every time it happens. It can't be because of _him_, of course. Ron is hardly someone to blush over, and even if he was, hardly someone _Harry_ should be turning bright red over. He's just… Ron, that's all. And the flush that spreads over that face, clashing with the brilliantly green eyes as it bleeds into that raven black hair, likes to say he's something much more than that. When he isn't. Not really. 

    Nothing like Harry, at least. 

    Because for Ron, it's impossible to measure up to someone like Harry. There's no one else on the planet who is like him. No one else laughs and shakes their head in the exact same way, at the same time, as though they can't believe something was that funny. No one else always picks ink from under their fingernails, frowning absently every time Hermione tries to bat his hands away from each other. No one else smiles the way he does; no one else flies, or speaks, or walks identically. (Because Harry flies beautifully, he speaks almost haltingly if he thinks he's wrong, his stride is longer than Ron's, though it never gets quite as far.) These are all pieces of a person unlike any other. 

    No, Ron believes nothing is as wonderful as Harry Potter. 

    "I happen to think you're awfully wonderful yourself," Harry likes to tell him, his emerald eyes gentle. Ron will never admit it, but whenever Harry says this to him, he blushes all the way from his ears to the bottoms of his shoulder blades, and would go on longer, if his blood got to his toes faster. 

    No one's ever said something like that to Ron. 

    "Absolutely perfect," Harry likes to whisper, running a finger done the slope of his nose, over the freckles and the blemishes. "Never doubt it." 

    So he doesn't. 

    The truth is, Ron always doubts himself. Even now, he wonders why Harry Potter chose _him_, of all people, to love. But the doubts fall away like the blinds to a sunrise, gentle and surprisingly easy to discard, whenever that smile turns to him. Because no matter what happens, he understands in his heart that this look belongs to him alone, for the rest of time and into the deep parts of the world. 

    They were meant to be together. 

    And though Ron's never believed in destiny, having disillusioned himself from the Divination lessons and months of living with brothers who teased him about such thoughts, there's no doubt about that. Harry and him belonged with each other. If they were pieces of a grand puzzle, they'd be side-by-side, a perfect fit amongst the discarded bits in the box. For every bleacher, there was a seat where they'd sit together to cheer on the game. For every class, there were desks that were near enough to give each other small grins. For every house, there would be a place big enough for them to crawl into and sleep together, twined at the legs and arms holding on tight, whether it be a bed or couch or cupboard, as long as they awoke to each other's breath. 

    So Ron says, "It's like fate." 

    "It was a bit of fate, and a lot of me rolling my eyes," Hermione likes to say. She sniffs indignantly as she does so, tossing her hair behind her shoulders. It's said at least every time Harry looks into his eyes, or reaches to touch his face. Ron thinks that Hermione may be jealous, but pleased all the same. She's like that an awfully lot of the time. 

    But whatever it is, whether fate or Hermione or that step in the Hogwarts staircases that makes him trip every single time, Ron knows it doesn't matter. Things have just always been destined this way. 

    It was written in the stars, in the words, in the seas. Those with the Third Sight would always see the invisible string connecting them. 

    For while he was Harry's most important thing… 

    Harry Potter was his future. 

    That was always how it was meant to be, and even if he had the gift, Ron wouldn't change it for the world. 

~~~~~ 

Told ya. Will upload something else soon. 


	6. Brotherly Love

_Brotherly Love_

By Kay 

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. If I did, the third movie would have never happened. ::groans:: 

Author's Notes: SLASH, Harry/Ron style. Just to warn y'all. Things have been hectic here… okay, and they've just _sucked_ a lot, and I hate the world… but I'm hoping to get back on track with my fanfiction here soon. To prove this, I actually huffed out this little piece of ugly fluff that's layered in OOC so thick, you could cut it with a wand. 

Enjoy. Post-Hogwarts/War. I'm taking liberties with the twins again.

* * *

It was the hottest day of the summer, but Harry couldn't have been happier. 

The sky was a light blue, dotted with cotton wisps of clouds and the viciously glaring sun that had everyone fanning themselves in exhaustion. The heat had been continuing all week, heedless of any pleas for rain, leaving the ground a dry and cracked mess of dead earth under everyone's bare feet. Even with the sun scorching everyone's skin, however, Harry Potter had never had a better time at the Burrow. 

When they'd called him at home-- during spring clean up, no less, as he stood helplessly in front of the mess that was his apartment-- Harry almost hadn't believed his ears. It wasn't that he didn't keep in touch. He really did. Hermione and Ron would have killed him if he hadn't, so there were always letters and quick chats in Diagon Alley to keep things current, but things had been so busy during that time. And with the war over, people were rebuilding their lives. He didn't want to get in the way of that. 

Trust Ron to break him out of his self-imposed isolation, of course. 

'_Stupid idiot,'_ the redhead had said over the phone, and Harry could just see his smirk on the other end. He'd been proud to figure out the Muggle contraption. Even smugger when he realized he'd backed Harry into a corner. _'Is that why you've been avoiding everyone? Get your arse over here, Mum wants to invite you for the summer.' _

'Really?' 

'No, she's just lying to you.' A pause, and then exasperated,_ 'Of course she did, Harry! You didn't think we'd forget your birthday, did'ja?'_

He'd flushed; not because he'd been thinking that, but because he'd almost forgotten it himself as the days grew busier. 

_'Stay for a while,'_ Ron had urged. _'We miss you. _

'I miss you.' 

And so, naturally, Harry went. 

"Would you like some lemonade, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked him, smiling gently at the older youth that befriended her son so long ago. She held out a tray, a few clear glasses of liquid placed on it. Harry smiled shyly at her-- the years hadn't erased his gratitude towards the poor family, nor his love for the woman who took to him like he was her own. 

"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley," he said, accepting the glass. He laid back in the armchair, taking a sip and watching as the rest of the family scurried around the yard of the Burrow, complaining about the heat as they set up a large picnic table and chairs. Somehow, though he'd protested, everyone had shown up and decided to throw him a birthday party. While it touched Harry in a way that made him swallow the thick lump in his throat and beam tearfully at Ron-- who'd grinned and cuffed his shoulder-- he didn't want everyone to make such a big deal about it. 

Like that was going to stop them. 

"Oi, Harry!" Bill called, his red hair longer than ever, "Grab another couple chairs while you're by the kitchen door! We need…" He turned around and counted under his breath. 

"Two more!" Ginny called before he could finish. She flashed a large, white smile at her older brother's disgruntled expression. Harry laughed from the doorway, taking a quick gulp of all the lemonade and wiping his mouth quickly. 

"Thanks for the lemonade, Mrs. Weasley," he said hurriedly, "I'll just place it in the sink, will I?" 

"That would be lovely, Harry." She started heading for the group of redheaded boys tangling together the picnic tablecloth, cursing as they unfolded it and tried to place it correctly. "Now, I must make sure they don't hurt themselves… honestly, they're this old and can't even fold correctly, goodness…" 

Harry watched her go with a grin, his hand on the door to the kitchen. As he was following her with his emerald eyes, he caught sight of a familiar scene. 

_'Heh. They stuck Ron with table setting duty.'_

Almost as though he heard his thought, his best friend looked up from across the yard, catching his eye and raising an eyebrow. Harry could almost hear the,_ 'What d'you think you're doin', eh, Harry?'_

Hearing the voice in his head, Harry felt warm. Warmer than the heat of the sun, warm in a way that made him relax and smile almost giddily at his best friend. Ron returned the grin, his white teeth a bright contrast to his tanned, freckled face and flaming red hair. His white shirt was ripped off at the sleeves, sticking to his chest and shoulders, prompting him to make a face at Harry and wave a hand as if saying, _'It's too hot! I'm going to faint!'_

Harry doubted it. The years had been kind to them both-- Harry, who played Quidditch regularly still, maintained a sleek and wiry form, though his messy hair was never completely conquered. Ron, on the other hand, had grown much like he'd started-- his bones jutted out, though the awkward angles had slowly softened into slender and firm features, leaving him with a skinny but tough adult body. In the sunlight, much like today, his red locks of hair seemed to be on fire, glowing fiercely under the focus of the light. 

He looked amazing that day. 

Even as Harry thought that and felt himself go red in the face, he ducked into the kitchen. It had been really odd lately; things between Ron and him had been different somehow. It was harder now, and yet so much easier. Sometimes it was like it always had been, the two of them laughing over some bad joke or sharing stories of their weeks. Sometimes, though, strange things would happen. They would glance at each other for too long, silent and connected through an invisible, incomprehensible line. Other times, Harry would find himself staring at Ron much like he had just done, startled by an odd attractiveness and magnetism that radiated from his friend. It hadn't been there before. At least, he didn't think so. 

Ron was touching him more, too. They'd always done things before-- a pat on the back, a cuff to the shoulder, a few times when he'd gripped the redhead's arm to get his attention. But it was different now. They'd be in the kitchen, soft and quiet in the mornings, all alone, and Ron would reach past him to get something on the shelf. Except he didn't bother going around him, just reached over and his hair brushed Harry's cheek, and his chest was pressed against his arms, and if he'd just reached around and pulled, he would have been-- 

Harry closed his eyes at the memory and groaned. 

The kitchen door banged open. 

"Well, well, well--" 

"If it isn't--" 

"--just the person we wanted to see!" 

Only two people ever talked like that. Harry groaned again, mentally this time, and opened his eyes. The twins grinned at him cheerfully, broad shoulders blocking the exit as they looked at him like… 

Like he was their prey. 

Suddenly, Harry felt very nervous. 

"Hey, Fred. George," he mumbled, eyes casting around the kitchen for something. Anything. "I was just… just…" 

"We wanted to have a talk with you," one of the twins said. Judging from the more serious eyes-he always had a slightly more contemplative personality than his brother, despite what they seemed-it was George. Maybe. "It's very important." 

"Much more important than lawn chairs." 

"See, it's about Ron." 

"Ickle Ronniekins, our baby brother." 

"Oh," Harry said weakly. Something instinctively told him he wasn't going to enjoy this. "That's… okay. Sure. What's up?" 

The twins exchanged unreadable looks, and what was probably George finally answered. 

"We want to know if your intentions towards him are pure." 

That hadn't been expected. 

"W-what?!" Harry sputtered, eyes wide and mouth gaping. "What d'you--" 

"See," Maybe-Fred interrupted smoothly. "We know what's going on." 

"You'd have to be blind not to see it," George added. 

"Like Mum." 

"She's blind." 

"But we aren't. We see what's going on." 

"Because we're good big brothers, believe it or not--" 

"--and if you don't, it's perfectly understandable--" 

"--but we just wanted to say--" 

"--that if you hurt him, we'll--" 

"--have to kill you, Harry--" 

"--yes, sorry." 

Harry stared at them. 

His brain whirling with complicated thoughts and confused metaphors, he finally managed to ask, "What was that?" 

The twins sighed together and exchanged another look, this time more amused and teasingly mournful at the same time. "Poor Harry. I don't think he sees it, do you, Fred?" 

"I guess not," Fred answered cheerfully. "He's clueless." 

George sighed dramatically. "Poor Ronniekins, doomed to pine for a thick-headed bloke like this one forever--" 

"--it's a cryin' shame, I was looking forward to--" 

"--telling him off? Yes. Telling him he could do better." 

"Than Harry?" 

"Well, he's being very stupid right now." 

"And his hair's always messy." 

"And he's got a scar." 

"Well, his clothes are always atrocious. No fashion sense." 

"He'd forget their anniversary." 

"Doesn't know how to cook--" 

"Hey, I do so!" Harry interrupted incredulously, gaping at them. "What are you two going on about?! It's nice to know you hold me in such low esteem, as well…" 

George preened. "Well, we _do_ have high standards." 

"He_ is_ our baby brother," Fred added possessively. "And, as such, it's our job to make sure no scruffy Scarheads get through the inspections." 

"Inspect--? Guys? What the heck are you talking about?" Harry groaned loudly, rubbing his forehead and slumping in a kitchen chair. He peered at the redheaded terrors with slit-shut eyes, frowning at them. "Can you just talk rationally for once?" 

"Ron loves you," Fred said. 

There wasn't much Harry could say to that. He stared. 

"It's obvious you're also smitten with him," George continued, winking rakishly at his brother's best mate. "Though you may not be aware of it yet. We just wanted to do our duty as big brothers, that's all, and make sure you had good intentions towards him." 

"Which means marriage," Fred warned darkly. "Mum will kill you in the worst way if you don't ask him eventually. Just to forewarn you." 

"And no sex on the first date." 

"No kissing, either." 

"You've got to be a good gentlemen--" 

"--or we'll find you, bash your brains in, and hang you from a Quidditch pole in Antarctica." 

There was a moment of silence. 

Harry swallowed. "Oh." 

"Oh, and Harry?" Fred said cheerfully. "Thanks for taking such good care of him so far. Just keep it up, will you?" 

"Because we know where you live." 

"And sleep." 

"And because we love Ron, it's best for him if he doesn't know about this little chat, alright?" George winked again. 

"Right," Harry said weakly, staring at them. 

"Well, now that that's over with," Fred announced, pleased, "I think Mum's waiting for us outside to help. Grab some extra chairs, will you, our future brother-in-law?" He slapped Harry on the back playfully, ignoring the shocked look upon his face. "We'll have this party set up in no time!" 

They left together, the screen door slamming shut behind them. Harry gaped after them as they went-- he distantly noted that from Ginny's sudden yell, they must have targeted her to "help" set up-- and suddenly felt very relieved that he had a chair under him during this time. 

Well. That had been… interesting. 

"Interesting," he repeated aloud, faintly. 

Intentions towards Ron? Were they being serious-? He wouldn't put it past them to throw the whole thing as some inside joke (and was quite sure they'd be snickering outside the house by now at their own clever wit), but it wasn't exactly the twins' style. Too subtle and sneaky, really. And to even have the idea, that would mean… 

But surely they had been joking. Harry swallowed noisily again, numbly slumping back in the chair and staring at his own hands in awkward fascination. They couldn't think that _he_-- that _Ron_-- where… well, could they?! 

The uncomfortable heat on the back of his neck told him that he was blushing. Furiously. 

_'It's so… because it's not like he likes me… like that. Honestly, they can't have meant anything-- maybe it was just a mistake-- or some sort of misunderstanding! What have the posts been printing about me lately?!'_

But what if…? Harry forced himself to think for a moment, focusing hard on the matter at hand. He could hear everyone outside clunking tables together. Ron would be out there. Had Fred and George cornered him yet? No, no, that was stupid, why would he get a speech when Harry was the one being warned? That was stupid. He couldn't possibly know about this whole thing. How mortifying that would be, Harry thought wildly to himself, if Ron knew how he felt about him-- 

And then, _'Oh God, it's true.'_

Harry's mind combusted. 

Later he would thank every god under the stars that no one heard the crashing sound as he fell off of the chair.

* * *

"We told him." 

Ron glanced up from the table, squinting in the sunlight only to see the silhouettes of his identical twin brothers. "Oh? How did he take it?" 

"I think we broke him," one of them admitted. 

"Ah." 

"But he didn't deny it," the other added, flashing him a grin. "And I think he might just be coming around to it." 

"Honestly, Ronniekins, couldn't you have fallen for a man that was quicker on the uptake?" 

"It's so embarrassing." 

"For everyone." 

Ron cracked a laugh, running a hand through his grimy hair sheepishly. "Yeah, well, Mom did pick Dad…" 

There was a pause. 

"Good point." 

"Yeah, true, true." 

Throwing another worried glance at the silent house, Ron asked, "So you're sure it worked?" 

"Positive." 

"Absolutely," added the redhead twin. "We may have taken the liberty to add a_ few_ things, other than the fact you like him, but I'm sure they just progressed the realization even more." 

"Brilliant. Thank bloody God. I've tried just about everything to get him to figure it out." He sighed in relief. "And I owe you how much for this…?" He trailed off weakly at the shark-eating grins on both of his brothers' faces. "Um…" 

Sometimes he really hated having brothers.

* * *

Well, that's it. Hope it was okay. I just think it's cute... you know, Ron paying the twins to actually help him out, and then they go and almost scare poor Harry away... anyway, it's loosely based on a new fic I'm going to start doing (yes, another one, don't worry, it's not going to interfere with my other late stuff), about Ron's futile struggle to get Harry to notice that he's attracted to him. XD It's pretty fun. It all started with the image of Ron just getting absolutely desperate, dumping a bucket of water on himself, and throwing a fit: 

Ron: JUST LOOK! LOOK, YOU STUPID, STUPID PERSON! I'M WET! I'M SOPPING WET! UNDERCLOTHED AND SOPPING WET! LOVE ME, DAMMIT! AAARRRGHHH! 

Harry: O.O 

... yeah. XD 

The new chapter of "The Meaning of a Faith" will be up in two weeks. I had a problem with a loophole in the plot, and it took three scheming minds over a weekend to finally find a way to dissolve it creditably. Needless to say, it just needs a little more revising and it'll be ready. :) For those who are wonderng... 


	7. On the Staircase

_On the Staircase _

By Kay 

Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter yet. "Yet" being the key word. ;) 

Author's Notes: Harry/Ron SLASH-- a little messed up towards the end. Harry, stop being such a bastard in my stories. I like you, remember? 

A very short drabble during Halloween. :) Enjoy!

* * *

The stair creaks, but they can't bring themselves to break the kiss. 

He knows that he doesn't want the Weasleys, still speaking softly in the cozy, dimly-lit kitchen below them, to see this frozen moment. There's a magnetic and hypnotic clamp down on his brain, however, and the murky thoughts dissolve under the warmth of the floorboards and stillness of the shadowed evening. The wallpaper is faded and bumpy under his hands, and Ron's bottom lip tastes like hot apple cider and the toffees he's been chewing all day, and all this is enough in itself to shut down the processes of his mind. 

Ron's hands grip his shoulders hard enough to hurt, but he doesn't even notice. Instead, he presses the scrawny body covered in worn cotton against the wall even harder, and this is like everything he's never dreamt possible and more-- the candy scattered at their feet, the shaking breath brushing against his jaw, and the stinging cut along his thumb where he slipped when carving the pumpkin. Always a dream. 

"Harry," Ron sighs. 

And he jerks away, staring back at the flush and confusion spreading over his best friend's face. Ron looks at him with trust, with fear, and with the softening of longing that makes his lips curve up into a tentative smile. 

But Harry has already remembered who he is, and the stair creaks when he runs upstairs to be sick. 

The End 


	8. Renegade Strings

_Renegade Strings_

By Kay

Disclaimer: I don't own. Yet. (sneaky glances)

Thanks for all the new reviews! You guys are the best! :D I'll try harder to upload more of these chapters-- usually I post first on my livejournal now, but I'll try to remember to keep up here, too. Thanks again! (And for those who asked, no, this isn't the end, these are just random drabbles from different universes that I've been collecting in one place. There'll be plenty more.) Sorry this one is so short, pointless, and slightly OOC. O.o I'll make something decent soon, I promise...

* * *

_'I can't promise you anything,' _he whispers in the dark, hovering on Ron's bedside and clenching his fingers around the hem of his pajama shirt, green eyes bright and anxious. His glasses are haphazardly crooked on his face, the moonlight glimmering off of them every time he dips his head to bite his lip worriedly.

Ron can feel nothing except the slight dip in the mattress where he is perched, uneasily, ready to turn away.

And this has happened a thousand times before in his dreams, but he never imagined it would be so painful. That the stench of dried blood would still be in the air, stretching awkwardly between them, and that his breath would be so shattered.

When Harry looks at him with that white-pinched face, there is fear, but there is desperation and need, too, and it makes Ron's heart ache painfully because he knows exactly how that feels. He wants to point out that a broken promise is still a promise, and that he's never expected anything from Harry, not absolution or sweet forever, and that he's willing to swallow the jagged shards of his own words, force them down to tear the delicate muscles of his esophagus, if only Harry will look at him like this, just now, and again then, and perhaps once more after all is said and done.

The hospital ward is empty, hollow in the night. They are locked like this, unreal and drenched in antisceptic scent and unfairness.

He fumbles with his arm-- it is bandaged, achy, slow-- and reaches out to touch Harry's face. His fingertips brush his sharp cheekbone, and Harry catches his breath, gazes intently at him, and there is nothing else to say.

But Ron says it anyway, murmuring,_ 'I'll make enough promises for the both of us.'_

_The End_


End file.
